Silence is Gold.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLVII, Issue 19, 8 May 1912, Page 44

Silence is Gold.

By

EARLY all the people asked to I Mrs Peyton's dinner and bridge I f knew that the Grahams and Mr / Archibald Eyver Yorke-Webster were t<- meet -there. The Grahams knew it. and were as much amused as the rest. Mrs Peyton, of course, was ignorant of the previous encounter between them and Yorke-Webster, for she had lieen away two months; and besides unless Mrs Graham told her, no one would do t. for Yorke-Webster was her protc'je-. she had introduced him into the Park. It seems she had known him, or his family. in England; and when he came over, in some sort of well-connect-ed business capacity. she first asked him to stay at her house, and then got hint to take a little furnished cottage near her in the Park. He had the Englishman's preference for the country, and the Park boasts good golf, tennis and other exercises. Then Mrs Peyton went to Canada. first asking several people to Cali on Yorke-Webster. Airs Peyton had a genius for blunders. It could never have been guessed from her account of him that the Englishman considered his neighbours a lot of meddlesome suburbanites, and that he was far from wanting any of them to call. The Grahams were the first to go. Mrs Graham told the story with quiet amusement to a few people, and it had gone the rounds. “Billy and 1 dropped in one afternoon after a walk; I suppose it might have been half past six or bo. We were shown into the diningroom. In the dining-room sat Mr YorkeWebster. His valet-butler gave him our cards. He rose, came forward holding the Cards, bowed, murmured som thing about dinner and hoping to have the pleasure of calling on us soon —and in two minutes we found ourselves outside the door. He hasn't called.'’ The two months had passed and YorkeWebster had not called on the Grahams. Other people were a little shy of visiting him. Only two or three had met him. Now about thirty had been asked to Mrs Peyton's dinner, and the Englishman's debut was awaited with much interest. He was a tall, thin man, between thirty and forty, with rather stooping shoulders, eyeglasses, a drooping moustache, bald temples, and a general look of refined decay. Mrs Peyton, a big breezy woman with a gift for trampling over people's small peculiarities, presented him cheerily to one person after another. One after another tried to talk to him. There were a number of Very amusing women, too—clever ones, used to making themselves agreeable, used also to some recognition of their ■Wity and good will. None of them

KEITH BOYCE.

got any recognition from Yorke-Webster, as they found on comparing notes afterward, or -indeed, as it was easy to see at the time. He would stand, stooping a little, but without any attention or deference in the stoop, looking at them through his eyeglasses, touching the ends of his moustache with a delicate forefinger and thumb—unsmiling, monosyllabic. “Yes ? Really ? Can't say, I'm sure.” That sort of thing was all he said—at least in the moments before dinner. The Grahams were twenty minutes late, as Mrs Graham's sister, Mary Allison, had missed the train. When they finally came in and Yorke-Webster was presented, he bowed gravely, as though he had never seen them before. There was curiosity as to his placing at table—-rather, as to the persons who were to have the doubtful honour of siting next him. It would have been just like Mrs Peyton to give him Alice Graham to take in. But no, another young married woman, selected for her peculiar vivacity and glibness, received his elbow; and on his other side safe Mary Allison. This was, for the rest of the party, as entertaining a combination as eould have been devised. Fortunately there was nothing to. obstruct the view. Mrs Peyton believed in every one talking at once to every one else. The room was lighted from the cornice, and the only decoration of the table was a thing in majolica which she vailed her "Italian garden,” and which held flowers «n a formal flat design. In the babble of tongues led by the hostess it was impossible to hear what was said across the table. But Mrs Leary's spirited attack on the Rock of Gibraltar was to be_ observed of all. She was known as the most constant and amusing talker in the Park. She opened with a broadside from her sparkling black eyes, accompanied by a running fire of witty inconeq nonces. Gradually her heavy guns, one by one, were brought into action—• her profile, her eyelashes, her very lovely jewelled hands, her gift of flattery, her best stories. It was even known wheu she brought up the reserves, and as a forlorn hope used all her sharpness—and she had an intuitive aim for a weak spot. And through it all the Rock stood, or sat, there apparently unconscious of the assault, calmly eating his dinner, replying most briefly, with the coolest of glances. Mrs Leary did not even get a foothold. Her cheeks mounted flaming colours, but not of triumph. Finally, she confessed her rout, retreated, horse, foot, and artillery, in confusion. and at the roast turned to the man on her other side, showing the white flag of surrender, a sudden pallor of intense irritation. This left Gibraltar quite solitary, for

Mary Allison's white shoulder had been steadily turned to him. and continued to be. It might have been, of course, that she disliked his behaviour to her sister, and meant to snub him: but she was so much given to putting jieople off unintentionally that it was a problem whether she ever meant it or not. Mary Allison never talked. At most she Ust-

ened, with a greater or lesser interest, the real degree of which was always frankly indicated. She had been listening now to Latham, who usually talked horse or dog, and who knew what he was talking about. Mary sometimes drove her brother-in-law’s four-in-hand. She could manage the Grahams’ big tour-ing-ear, too. She was physically very active, but danced badly, and was awkward though effective at tennis. She played a very good game of bridge, and not a bad one of billiards. She was not unpopular, though she had no social small change. She was not supposed to be “deep.” She never said clever things. When there was nothing to do, she simply sat in a silence that was sometimes dull and sometimes luminous, and looked with her large, rather vague eyes at the people about her or at nothing. Putting Mary next to Yorke-Webster meant probably a charitable intention on the part of Mrs. Peyton, who was full of misdirected zeal. iShe was capable even of representing to Yorke-Webster that he ought to marry Mary, who was “such a nice girl, and had not a penny.” For several years Mary, who was now twenty-seven, had been on Mrs. Peyton’s mind. She felt there was no reason why Mary should not marry well, except that" she would take no interest in it. Mrs. Peyton was one of the people who admired Mary's looks, her ample style, which generally was somewhat disparaged as "not exactly girlish.” Girlish Mary was not. She was big—a big frame, an effect of solidity, almost stolidity. It was reproachfully said of her that she had no nerves. If .she had a soul or a heart, some casual efforts had failed to locate them. She had a robust inexpressive affection for her family and for a few people who “did not bother” her. She had some very good friends among men. Coquetry she had none, and probably never had wished to marry or she would have done so —•being a very practical person, in spite of her vague (tn the evening of the dinner she was looking unusually handsome in an old black velvet dress which showed white at the seams, but set off her colouring of “barbaric pearl and gold.” As she sat and as Yorke-Webster stooped she was half a head taller than be. The talk shifting from left to right, she did not turn to him, but merely presented her rather remarkable profile, something like that of the commercial Liberty; and she sat placidly eating her roast bird,

and he did the same. They sat side by side without exchanging a word for some fifteen minutes. Mary looked calmly absent-minded. Her large blue eyes roved slowly over the table, and the animated crowd. Sometimes these eyes expressed a -light curiosity, or wonder. They were never sharp. Often, as now, they were a lim-

pid blank. What she was thinking of when she looked like this no one eould tell. If she were asked, she said "Nothing.” Probably it was the truth. Yorke-Webster also seemed ealm and contented. The food was uncommonly, good, and he was enjoying it, but he did not touch the wine, which was only fair in quality. Assuredly he had the respect of a person trained in taste, able to select the best and resolved not to put up with anything less. As to manners—well, he was known to have said to Mrs. Peyton, “Of course, you know, you Americans are not civilised,” and she had cheerfully agreed with him. If he had said, and he probably had—“Of course, you know, all women are fools,” she would have agreed with h.m none the less. She eould give up her entire race, or sex, to scorn ami contumely, without minding it a bit. and would even include herself. Certainly no person with small vanities or susceptibilities eould have got on for a moment with Yorke-Webster, and she got on with him beautifully. She admired his manner, even. And in a way she was right. He had distinction, ami the sort of smoothness of surface which muctt friction imparts to a naturally hard sub” stance. Evidence of his taste, of course, was his liking Mrs. Peyton. He said of her that she “ had style. ’ He was to say almost the same thing of Mary Allison. What he did say, cautiously, was: “ Really, she isn’t bad style.” It was possible almost to know the exact moment when this impression wag made upon Yorke Webster. After Mary’s ruminating silence had endured for a, quarter of an hour and gave no sign of ending, he looked at her, looked- again, and finally addressed a question to her. "Er—do you live here’” “Oh, no,” she said, turning her head ami looking down on him inquiringly. “Ah—visiting?” “Yes. My sister over there.” And she indicated Mrs. Graham, who was caught watching them gleefully. “Ah, yes. Nice little place, this,” ho said. “Very.” Mary helped herself liberally to salad -—she was eating her way steadily through the menu. Yorke-Webster took a spoonful. ” w "Invariable American custom,” he observed. "Salad after meat—and everything under heaven, even sugar, I believe. in the salad. Only thing I don’t like in this house —except the wine.’*

"ResllyT” said Mary, looking in an absent way at her sister, and wondering why Alice had been laughing at her. “I see you don't drink it, either, he said. . “What! Oh, I never drink wine. Prefer buttermilk.” “Ah,” he said, meditatively. Then they sat silent again. Billows of talk and laughter rose and fell around them. They were watched, but neither showed the slightest self-con-sciousness. Mary glowed placidly like a summer sky. There was a large warmth about her, as impersonal, as indifferent as nature. If she was difficult to talk to. she was very good to look at, and Yorke-Webster seemed to find it so. To meet her eyes on a level he even straightened his drooping shoulders, and finally asked her another question. “Bo you play tennis? I don’t think I’ve seen you at the courts.” “I play—but not well enough to play with the men, and too hard for the ■women.” “Ah! And golf?” “No; it’s too slow.” “You ride, I suppose?" “Yes; but I haven’t a horse.* “Do you live in New York?” “No; I live in the country with my parents.” “Are you going to the dance tomorrow?” “Yes; but I dance very badly.” “And you play bridge?” “Yes, I can play bridge.” This finished the catechism, which did not even seem to amuse Mary. -She regarded dinner-table conversation as a necessary evil, and took it gravely. Bridge, however, she enjoyed, and that night played a really brilliant game, with an average partner. against Yorke-Webster and Mrs. Graham. The Park did not play for money, but the first prize, a silver bag, fell to Mary. Her play was admirable in form—swift, quiet and sure—but rather merciless, as the Park in general played "family bridge.” Yorke-Webster, when he had been beaten three rubbers, smiled under his moustache and said: “I can imagine now what your tennis is-like.” “No, it is not very good.” said Mary honestly. “I play by main force.” Mary danced by main force, too. There, was nothing supple or yielding about her - method, and after a daueo her partner might generally be seen surreptitiously drying his brow. She appeared the next night at the Casino in a rather old pink chiffon dress, which ripped off part of a flounce each time she danced. The dress was not very becoming, and she looked awkward daneing persistently and solemnly, with her big figure, among the airy, gliding pace? of the slender women. But YorkeWebster danced with her four times, with Mrs. Peyton twice, with Mrs. Graham twice, and with no ono else. The Grahams’ house stood in the most thickly inhabited part of the Park, and was in view of fully kal fadozen different sets of drawing-room windows. It was known, therefore, when Y’orke-Webster, in frock-coat and silk hat. went to pay his long-delayed call. How or whether he made his peace with Mrs. Graham she did not say. She had an air, highly amused, of waiting developments; Mary did not seem to be waiting—any more than usual. Her large, quiet eyes had always, in a way, a waiting, a receptive look—as though she knew the world must pour some sort of riches into her lap. But it was plain that she did not regard Yorke-Webster with any special interest. And when he. with Mrs. Peyton and several other people, was asked to dine at the Grahams’, Mary went home to her parents and stayed several days. It came out that Mrs. Peyton had asked for the invitation, on Yorke-Webster’s behalf; and she had blurted out happily that he was much taken with Mary. “He says,” she quoted, "that Mary might go anywhere —if she had somebody to dress her and do her hair properly.” Yorke-Webster was very agreeable that evening. There were only eight people; the talk was general, and he contributed his share. He paid special unobtrusive attention to Mrs. Graham, Who was calmly gracious to him as to everyone. Mary came back on Sunday, and was told that Mrs. Peyton wanted her to come up for a cup of tea. She telephoned that she was too tired. Late in the afternoon Mrs. Peyton flew in. her hat rather on one ear and her expensive clothes thrown on, as usual. Mary was dressing to go out to dinner,

but Mrs. Peyton insisted on coining to her room for five minutes. “New, Mary,” she began aggrievedly, “'why wouldn’t you come to tea? And why did you run away the other night? I didn’t think you would treat me th it way, after all the Interest I’ve taken in you.” Mary, placidly doing her hair, smiled deprecatingly. “I didn’t think you’d mind,” she said. “Welf, I do. Archie was really put out. And you’re the only person he’s shown the slightest interest in here, and the poor fellow is really a good deal bored.” ‘’Well, if he is interested in me,” said Mary, calmly, “it’s out of pure contrariness. He’s one of those horrid people that enjoy snubbing anyone who’s decently polite. If I were to show any interest in him. you may be verv sure he’d find me a bore, too.” Mrs. Peyton opened wide her eyes. “Oh, so that’s it! Now. Mary, don’t you try to l>e clever, for you know it’s not in your line. You might easily be too clever ” “I’m not trying to be clever,” said

Alary, slowly flushing. “ 1 don’t like your friend, that's all.” “You don’t like him ? Well, why not, pray ? He’s considered a mosit fascinating man. when he takes the slightest trouble to be.” “I fail to see it,” said Mary, casually sticking in hairpins. ’•Well, I’d like to know why you danced a whole evening with him, then ?’’ “Just because I love to dance, and 1 never have enough partners. I’d dance with anybody.” “Well, why don’t you like him ?” “He is rude and puts on airs.” “Oh, well ! You know how Englishmen are —‘the. women spoil them. And if you only knew how he’s been run after ” “I can’t see why.” “Well, as I say, he really i.s a great charmer—when he wantci to be. And then he belongs to a good family, you know—there are only three lives between him and the title, if he is in business—and he could give his wife, if ahe had money, a very good position.” Mary looked sceptical. “Well, do you want me to run after

him ?” she inquired. “He wouldn't want to marry me; I’ve got no money.” “ No. that’s the trouble.” sighed Mrs Peyton. ‘Otherwise I really think might. He confessed to me that he—well, he said you were a person tint might go anywhere, if ” "Yes, I’ve heard that,” interrupted Mary. "If I had my hair done properly.” And she stuck in the last hairpin ant turned to put on her dress. ••Well, of course he meant if you were smartly turned out —as you can’t be without money, or. at any rate, without knowing just where and how to go. It’s true, you would be stunning. Mary. You really have beautiful shoulders. As he said, there’s something almost maternal about you.” Mary, who had put her dress over her head, emerged to view whh a much brighter colour. ‘•l’m not interested in his opinion of me,” she said. "Very well.” Mrs Peyton rose. “But I want you to come to dinner to-morrow night and l»e nice to him. He needs to be amused, and what harm can it do ? Wear the black velvet ’

“Birf supposing I should .succumb to his charms ?” objected Mary. “That would be too bad, as 1 haven’t the price. Perhaps you’d better warn him not to be as fascinating as he can.” “Oh. of course, if you’ve taken to being clever ! ” And Sirs Peyton, tos-ing her head, departed. Mary called down the stairs; “Don’t expect me ’to amuse him. You know I’m dull company, even if I like a person.” “Oh, let him amuse himself. anyway,” called back Mrs Peyton, with unusual irritation in her cheery voice. That was what it amounted to, of con roe. Yorke-Webster preferred to amuse himself. The sensations of the hunted game were not new to him. but those of the hunter had some novelty. Whatever effort was made in the development of his acquaintance with Mary Allison he had to make himself. Having once taken the initiative, he came •to make a good deal of effort. He hid a strong prejudice to overcome, and overcoming it interested him great’y. Me had put himself in the wrong, and wim now determined to be very much in the right. The situation, though as yet unexpressed in words, was perfectly

understood all round. Yorke Webster became very devoted to Mrs (Ira ha in. His glacial surface melted; his energy was stirred; the real pride and strength of a world-conquering breed were called out. . . . He fell in love with Mary Allison, tempestuously in love. 11** con tided in Mrs Peyton ami in Mrs Graham He asked Mary to marry him, and she refused. The reason she gave was that she did not want do go so far away from her parents—ami his business was already recalling Yorke-Webster to England. ‘‘l’d like to go and see your parents,” he said. Alary demurred. “My father Is an invalid ami quite fond of me. You would frighten him dreadfully. I don’t think you’d better She became more silent than ever. In a stormy interview Mrs Peyion elicited nothing. “You said,” objected Mary, “that he must marry a woman with money. “Never mind. You may depend on -t Yorke-Webster sees his way. lie isn’t the man to run his head into a noos** even if he is in love.” “Do you really think so ?” “Of course I do. Hasn’t he explained hw position and prospects ’to you ?” “Well, I shall drop him a hint to do so, then.” “Please do nothing of the kind, It’s quite settled. 1 could not leave papa am* mamma.” Airs Peyton snorted. “What do you mean. Mary Allison, by talking baby-talk to me ? You have certainly got something up your sleeve.” Ihe first snow-storms put an end to tennis ami golf ami motoring. The Like froze, and Alary took to skating ant •coasting, and 1 orke-Webster became her shadow. He had now only three weeks before sailing. People met them often tramping silently side bv side along the country roads. * Yorke-Webster seem.',l to grow younger each day. and more disturbed. He had lost all resemblance to the Rock of Gibraltar. He had been sapped and mined and blown up in the nil: not by Alary— at least, no one gave her credit for meaning to do it—but bv I’ate. or Poetic Justice. His air of a superior person marooned among savages was now amply avenged, since one of the savages had cap.ured him and was crunching his bones. So said Mrs Learv and patronised Yorke-Webster whin they met. Afary grew more and more beautiful She bloomed, she glowed. And the ar •lour of his wooing grew as her refusal? and reasons multiplied. Yorke-Webster’s eyes became more haggard and his jaw more obstinate day by day. For all his impassive exterior he was of a nervous temperament, highly trained, excitable. Afary was really calm—quiet as a sunny meadow. There was something about her, more than ever now. that suggested deep rich grass, and cows and daises, and dreaming blue sky. There was a fitness, after all. in her attraction for the dark and irritable Englishman. He was a man of fixed tastes and habits an the innumerable trifles of daily life, and no doubt felt instinctively that this woman would be taken on a different plane. She would never interfere with him. The fa*et that he required a wax taper instead of a wooden match to light his cigarette would amuse her. but she would never try to persuade him to the wooden match. “Wooden” was a word sometimes used to describe Mary, earlier, lint not now. It became more and more evident that she was being illumined -oim thing like a clear camlie-flame shone in her eyes. Happiness shone about her. She whs happy long before Yorke Webster wai But long before she was openly won over, her relatives were. Visits to her parents had been paid. Billy Graham had pronounced Yorke-Webster “a jolly good fellow, after all.” Ami Alice had forgiven him. All the world may not love a lover, Lilt it pities him, and takes pleasure in helping to rivet lais chains upon him. If he has been superior, he is now reduced ladow the level of resent incut. He is defenceless, undignified; he clanioura fur aid ami comfort. He is humble, absurd, human. Yorke-Webster developed the persistence ami monomania <»f genius ilo haunted the house where Mary chose to be, neglecting business and trankiy an* nounving that he meant to slay in America tail she had agKU’tl tn marry him. He became garrulous. Many g e.v more

and more silent and beautiful as the time for his departure drew near. Whether at the end, she deliberately held off—whether she had been doing it all along—who knew ? At last, one night Yorke-Webster stayed till two o’clock. When Mary went upstairs she tapped at her sister s door and found her reading in bed. Mary said, with a smile, standing before the long mirror and looking at herself earnestly: “He says we ehall have enough to live on. And he’s promised to come for me as soon as he can. He wanted to have the wedding in London, with all his relatives, but I said it must be here. Was that right ?” “Quite right,” said Alice gravely. “ I believe you will be happy. 1 never saw a man more in love.” “Oh, he has been spoiled, of course. But he is really rather nice when you know him.” “ I found that out before you did.” “Did you ? Are you sure ?. . . He adores you. And he has not been rude to a single person for weeks. Have yon noticed it ? He hands chairs for the old ladies and ie polite even to the young ones.” “Yes.” Mrs Graham laughed. “ The manners of courtship, my dear.” Mary smiled at her own glowing reflection in the glass. “Why shouldn't he go on courting ? ” she asked. The tw’O sisters kissed. Three years later, Mrs Peyton, after a spring and summer in England, returned to the Park, and to Mrs Leary she gave th.is account of the Yorke-Wehsters. “ I dined with them 'three times. They have a tiny house, and the street-door opens into the dining-room; but they have the nicest people in London to dine. Of course they're rather poor; but

Mary has a wonderful -cook and wonderful clothes. She never 'talks, but sits at the head of the table looking perfectly stunning, and everybody likes leer. And there’* only one life now between him and the title. She has two lovely children—and he adores her ! Really—l do think, for a person who isn’t at all clever, she has managed well." "Oh, I don’t know," said Mrs Leary thought fully. "What would you call clever ?’’